


Menswear for Ladies

by RembrandtsWife



Series: Sherlolly Lite [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, F/M, Vaginal Sex, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1537073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not sure, at first, that he likes seeing Molly wear one of his shirts. But he soon changes his opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Menswear for Ladies

**Author's Note:**

> What is this I don't even--
> 
> I wrote this *today*. I should be working. I have been, sort of. Anyway, I broke down and created a new series: Sherlolly Lite, happy jolly PWPs. This is the third after "A Definite Enhancement" and "Yes, but--". Thanks to nookienostradamus and dietplainlite for encouragement.

The first time he saw Molly wearing one of his shirts, Sherlock reacted badly. Not that he let it show; Molly looked too happy and comfortable, humming under her breath (out of tune) as she made toast and tea. But it reminded him of the affair with Janine, who had quite liked wearing his shirts. He had liked Janine, actually, enough that cuddling and snogging her had not been revolting; enough that he felt badly, still, about using her to get to Magnussen. At least she had come out of the whole thing on top. She was still sending him taunting pics of the cottage in Sussex, the bees amongst the flowers.

He compressed his feelings behind a mask of post-coital morning cheer and, instead of asking her to take off his shirt and put on something else, he deliberately came up behind Molly and embraced her. She giggled as he placed a kiss on her neck, reaching up to stroke his hair. Sherlock got a good whiff of tea and buttered toast, marmalade, Molly's hair and skin, his scent lingering on the shirt. The tight little ball of regret/dismay/anger in his solar plexus began to unknot, placated by his sense of smell. His cologne, his sweat, embedded in the shirt, blended appealingly with Molly's own melange of soap, sweat, sex, unwashed hair, sweetly fragranced laundry detergent.

He accepted the tea and toast she offered him and studied her as she babbled about cases lined up for the day's shift. Her hair was still loose around her shoulders; she had combed it out in the bathroom. He liked her hair best like this, second-best braided or piled up on her head, least in a pony-tail. She had glorious hair that ought to be showed off, not simply twisted back out of the way. She had buttoned the shirt, a very pale blue one, and rolled up the sleeves quite a bit. Janine was tall and statuesque; she had filled out his shirts with height, breast, and buttock. Molly was small in all the ways Janine was not; she should have looked childlike in his oversized shirt, but she didn't. Not with her eyes sparkling at him across the table, with the glow of last night's orgasms in her cheeks, with her nipples brushing the soft fabric of the shirt from inside, now visible, now hidden--

He surprised himself more than Molly when he dropped to his knees in front of her, curling one hand around her neck under her hair and drawing her close to taste tea and marmalade on her lips. She let out a little squeak, then opened her mouth and sought his tongue with hers, catching his hunger. Sherlock stood, drawing Molly up from her chair and against him without releasing her mouth. She wound her arms around his neck and clung as one by one he undid the buttons of his shirt.

Two buttons, and he could slip his fingers inside to tease the inner curves of her breasts. He would never tire of the texture of her skin; "soft" was a bare indication of it, and metaphors wholly inadequate. A third button, and he could cover a breast with his hand and feel the nipple driving into his palm, rising on her sudden intake of breath. Sherlock nuzzled aside a lock of hair and found her neck with his nose, his lips, brushed over her skin and inhaled.

Molly whimpered, and Sherlock noticed he was hard, quite hard, yes, his cock seemed to be trying to find its own way past the folds of his dressing gown and her shirt into its favorite place. He fumbled for the next button, and the next, needing more of her skin. His mouth opened against her neck, bore down, his fingers closed on a nipple, and Molly shuddered in his arms, moaning his name--she'd had an orgasm, just from that.

"May I fuck you now, Molly? I want to, right now." She shuddered again as his lips brushed her ear.

"The couch, the couch," Molly said, waving roughly toward her living room with one limp hand. Sherlock got a good grip on her bum and simply lifted her up against him, loving her surprised "Oh!", and carried her the short distance.

He sat down with perhaps less control than he might have liked, but he had a reason. Molly straddled his lap at once, making his cock strain toward her warmth, teased by her pubic curls. Their mouths came together, hungry, hungrier; her fingers wove through his hair.

"Want you on top," Sherlock said, when Molly broke away to gasp for air. That earned him another delighted squeak. He pivoted on his bottom and stretched out, his neck on the well-padded arm of the sofa. Molly climbed over him and found just the right spot to kneel so she could take him in hand.

He groaned as she grasped his prick and eased back the foreskin, rubbed the head over her clit. Usually he had his fingers in her first, but not this time; no surprise she wanted to take him slowly, as this position would allow her to do. He stroked her hips, her buttocks. She ran the head of his cock back and forth along her wet slit, rubbed her clit with her fingers, spread herself. He loved the concentration on her face, the way she bit her lip as she opened her pussy, then shifted her weight to take him in.

Sherlock groaned again. He was always embarrassingly loud during sex with Molly--why was that? But it was perfect, she was perfect, seated over him with his shirt hanging loose and open on her, breasts pert, his cock completely enclosed. Still biting her lip, she rocked back and forth, rubbing her clit against his pubic mound.

He curled his hands at his sides, wanting to let her lead the dance. She didn't often ride him like this--why not? should do it more often. As she gradually moved faster, harder, her head rolled back, exposing her throat, the little marks his mouth had left. She rose and fell on his cock, whimpering rhythmically, her cunt making delicious wet noises. He let himself touch her breasts and that was good; she arched into the touch, and he knew how hard to pinch her nipples, when to knead her whole breast. Her whimpers broke into open-mouthed cries. He lifted his hips in counterpoint to her jogging. She planted her hands on his chest and rode harder.

The words broke out of him as if forced by the pressure of her hands, the weight of her pleasure. "Yes, that's right, use me, use me, Molly, yours, all yours--"

Her cry of orgasm sounded strangely like a cry of mourning, a long descending wail. She slumped on his chest, and he let himself brace his hands on her lower back and press her down against as he thrust savagely in pursuit of his own climax.

There was a good deal of panting for a while, and nothing else. Sherlock stroked Molly's back through his shirt. She lifted up a bit, letting his softened penis slip away, then settled down again, her arms wreathed around his head. Her hair covered his face, but he didn't mind.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes." Her lips just touched his cheekbone.

Neither of them said the words often. They came easily, however, at this moment. "I love you, too, Molly Hooper." He kissed the hollow of her cheek. "Join me for a shower?"


End file.
